Poetry | Stories | Photography
Thoughts of snow,
reprieve from the heat.
Chickens live next door,
often disguised as roosters.
Flies buzz determined;
evil beasts want tasty food.
A beast enters by magic,
the instant recognition of the fly swat.
Angry as a beast lands,
you wildly spank the chair.
A tree stood near our fence; we knew not what it was.
Winter came, then went, as Spring started anew.
The tree grew buds, which bloomed into flowers, as the
cherry blossoms moved and danced for us in that Spring.
Lonely, a solitary figure steps through the park full of songs and poetry.
There’s no money made from being soft and creative, yet he hopes for love.
Penniless, he walks from window to window, attempting to serenade someone.
He walks home, wondering why he was made this way.
You invited me to take a voyage on the notes you love.
We journeyed together, listening to the way songs changed over time; we embraced our favourites and kept an open mind.
Now, I remember you by a series of your favourite songs, which I sometimes play alone.
Some prayed for rain; others danced, many gave up hope as the dams dried up.
An old man sat looking at them, shook his head, and thought of all those times he scolded the rain.
What he’d give for drop now, yet then he hated how the rain always ruined his plans.
A charlatan on some disused corner said, “You are what you love. Remember those words, for they will set you apart from the rest.”
Walking down an empty street thinking about the charlatan’s words, they rattle and bounce around the expanse of her skull: threatening.
A thought takes shape; She says to herself, “If you are what you love, then my organs are books, my brain is an archive of knowledge, the blood that runs through my veins is ink, and my soul is my many words.
A friend Convinced you hypnosis is the way to cure smoking, so you take a trip to a practitioner.
Looking at a pocket watch with intricate carvings of flowers and stems, you feel calm relaxation set in.
A voice from far away says, “Don’t be a naughty smoker, Anna”.
“MUM?”
We travelled for so long to find my home. For years you travelled with me this way.
Now, looking from up here, the way is steep, and I am scared.
We are so close. Please help me make it to my home, then say the words I’ve longed to hear: You already know the answer.
All the poems you wrote,
kept safe in a plastic crate.
A jealous lover of your words
finds your crate, and in
dissiri,
destroys your handwriting.
A series of questions follow;
there are no
clear answers, yet you know.
All it takes is one line crossed,
one betrayal,
to leave with almost nothing.
A hurt unknown to your heart,
now broke,
you struggle without a home.
All you must do is stop writing;
a jealous lover
and a life with plenty of money.
An understanding of your worth;
you walk away
and let your words and life flow.
A published writer of many poems;
letting grief go,
and walking without looking back.
All your words are you,
A part of who you are,
A cry of rebellion in a world of conformity;
You need not apologise for the words you write.
The festive season moves on;
another year and the end of another song.
The taste of tomorrow in a mug;
a cup of coffee, milk and sugar: your drug.
It has all been done before;
right now, you require something more.
To remain the same isn’t you;
you think of flowers blooming under the blue.
You step out of your comfort zone;
no one else can walk the path, only you alone.
To the sky, you look in wonder;
it’s clear today, yet inside you hear the thunder.
The new you walking without fear;
you are alive, and well enough, fate is near, and
now you can see that your path is clear.
C & K 